


Small little wonders

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pregnancy, cursing, it's not dark people!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her weakest moments, Molly Hooper thinks that Sherlock Holmes is a vision carved from the eyes and hands of long lost artists. In her stronger moments, she knows that Sherlock Holmes is just a man. But that’s okay, because she’s a woman and sometimes, things like this…they just happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small little wonders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdaYuki](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=AdaYuki).



> A little angsty but not dark! SWEET JESUS! LOL. This is dedicated to the awesome AdaYuki who wanted to see me write a pregnant Molly fic. Kind of went in a completely different direction, but I sincerely hope you like it darling!
> 
> Also: I love you all, seriously, all of you are so amazing and your support in everything I do is amazing. You make my heart swell. I don’t know what I would do without my Sherlollians. You guys are amazing and I love you all oh so very much. Like always, any mistakes are mine and mine alone and reviews are always very appreciated.

In her weakest moments, Molly Hooper thinks that Sherlock Holmes is a vision carved from the eyes and hands of long lost artists.

 

In her stronger moments, she knows that Sherlock Holmes is just a man.

 

(But that’s okay, because she’s a woman and sometimes, things like this…they just _happen_.)

* * *

She goes two years of having him come in and out of her flat, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, before they have sex.

 

It’s both everything and nothing like she thought it would be.

 

Her brings her over the precipice and she pleads, prays, begs and pulls him closer, terrified to let him go (she’s always been so terrified to let him go) and he collapses atop of her, head resting in the valley of her breasts and listening to her heart beat thunderously.

 

(She feels like her body has been set on fire and ripped apart only to be put back together.)

 

She’ll never forget the way his lips move over her glistening skin and the way his breath ghosts over her body and the way his voice sounds (hoarse and deep with a _little_ bit of desperation) as he says her name over and over again. “Molly. Molly. _Molly_.”

 

(Her name sounds like a prayer falling from his lips and Molly is terrified that one day; she’s going to disappoint him.)

 

She’s terrified that one day, he won’t come back.

* * *

Her period has always been irregular. So, it doesn’t really surprise her when she misses her it. But then she misses her second and suddenly her stomach is queasy and she can’t keep anything down.

 

She’s been feeling nauseous for the past couple of days and she’s passed it off as something she ate from that Thai place from down the street.

 

She’s in the morgue (she’s always in the morgue nowadays) when Sally and Greg show up (Sally and Molly struck up a tentative friendship when Sally hesitantly put her hand on Molly’s arm and told her “even though I thought he was a self-righteous prick all the time, I’m sorry for your loss.” She takes a deep breath (and to Molly, it’s a bit shaky) “I never…when I…everything made sense…I’m-” Molly cuts her soft with a small smile, “it’s okay Sergeant Donovan. You were doing your job and God only knows that Sherlock never made it easy.” “It’s Sally. Call me Sally”) with a body they need her to look at.

 

She hasn’t seen the body yet, but when she does, she lets out a small gasp, heart slamming against her chest.

 

The man on her slab is ( _was_ ) tall with pale skin and black curly hair. (He looks just like Sherlock did when they faked his death.)

 

In the rational part of her mind, she _knows_ it’s _not_ him. She _knows_ that Sherlock has a birthmark under his third rib, in the distinct shape of a star (he vehemently denies it when she laughs and tells him that he’s always had part of the solar system on him) and he’s entirely too muscular to be Sherlock…but _still_. In that moment, Molly isn’t thinking clearly. In fact, she’s not thinking at all.

 

She acts on instinct when she bolts out of the morgue and rushes into the loo. She’s just made it over the toilet before she loses her breakfast and lunch (and oh, _yes_ , the leftover dinner from last night, _wonderful_.)

 

“Molly?” Sally asks softly, as she walks into the loo. Her curly hair is all that Molly can see in her peripheral vision, as she kneels next to her and rubs a hand over her back. “We should have warned you, I didn’t…”

 

“It’s fine.” Molly croaks. “Everything is fine. I’ve been feeling sick for the past couple of days, that’s all. Bit of food poisoning or the flu.”

 

(In her gut, Molly knows it’s not either of those two options.)

* * *

She goes to the store a week later when her vomiting hasn’t let up. Her heart is in her throat and she’s suddenly so nervous as she stares at the shelves of boxes.

 

She grabs five and pays a pretty penny for them, but her mother always told her _it’s better to be safe than sorry_. (Then again, she has a feeling, that were her mother still alive, she’d _tsk_ her tongue teasingly at her and ask _where was safety when you really needed it?_ Her mother always had an odd sense of humor that Molly seemed to inherit.)

 

She drinks two bottles of water and pees on five different sticks.

 

They all come back with the same results. _Positive_.

 

(It takes her all of one minute and fourteen seconds before the bile rises in her throat and she throws up all the water she drank.)

* * *

She’s met Mycroft Holmes a few times. Most of the times (okay, fine, _all_ of the times) it has to do with Sherlock. He updates her on his brother’s wellbeing. He never tells her his whereabouts (does he honestly think that Molly will chase after him? She _loves_ Sherlock but she’s not _suicidal_ ) but he does tell her things like “he’s alright” and “he’s fine” and one time, before she left, Mycroft Holmes told her in his signature soft and detached voice “he asked about you.”

 

This time, though, this time, she knows it’s _not_ about Sherlock. At least not really. Not directly.

 

She knows it’s him because of the three succinct knocks on her door. They’re not heavy knocks, more like little ticks and she knows that he’s tapping her door with his umbrella. (Some days, she’d like to see his reaction if someone ever hid his umbrella from him…she has a feeling Sherlock has…multiple times.)

 

She’s most certainly not dressed to accept any guests. She’s in her pajamas with her old dressing gown hanging off her frame. Her hair is in a ponytail, mussed from her position on the couch and she knows that she has bags under her eyes. She opens the door anyways and he stares at her with knowing eyes.

 

“Doctor Hooper.” The eldest Holmes brother says, inclining his head. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

 

She opens the door wider and lets him in.

 

(Which ultimately means that she lets the ever so impeccably dressed Anthea in, because well, those two are a package deal, aren’t they?)

* * *

Mycroft starts off by trying to give her money.

 

Molly refuses bluntly and tells him that if he ever so much as tries to shove money at her again, she’ll break his fingers (Anthea snorts from her position by the window and types vigorously on her blackberry.)

 

He’s silent until he finally asks the question that Molly knows he’s been anxious (not like the Holmes brothers ever show anxiety) to ask. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

 

Has she decided? It’s _all_ she can think about. Realistically and professionally, she went through every possible scenario. She drew up a list of pros and cons for every viable option and then ripped them apart. She’s made herself sick with thoughts and questions and answers that lead to even more thoughts and questions and answers. In the end, she decides to do the only thing she ever knew she was going to do.

 

“I’m going to keep it.” She mentally winces, she really hates the word it. To her, _it,_ always seemed like a placeholder.

 

(Molly must have imagined the pause in Anthea’s typing and she most certainly _must_ have imagined the look of relief that passed over Mycroft’s face.)

 

“Good. Good, I’m glad.”

 

“Mycroft.” Molly says softly, she’s wringing her hands, completely nervous about the words that are going to come out of her mouth. This has been another thing she’s thought about for a while. It makes sense to her, at least in some ways. She doesn’t want to be the reason why he’s distracted. She would have given anything to be his distraction before, but not now, _never_ now, when he has the weight of the world and criminally elusive people to destroy and dismantle. “You can’t tell him. You can’t even let on about this.”

 

(This time she knows she doesn’t imagine Anthea pausing.)

 

“You have my word.”

 

(That’s the thing with Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper, they’re always good for their word.)

* * *

The first person she tells is Sally. She falls off her stool in the morgue.

 

“Who the hell have you been shagging and _why_ haven’t you told _me_?”

 

“He’s no one.” Molly tells her, “just a passing fancy.”

 

(Sherlock Holmes is anything _but_ a passing fancy.)

* * *

She has a weekly dinner with Greg, Mrs. Hudson, John and his new girlfriend, Mary Morstan (Molly thinks she’s lovely and she knows that even _Sherlock_ will have a hard time not liking her) once a week. So, she decides to kill four birds with one stone. “Work’s been great, busy with all the dead bodies, sorry, I know…not proper dinner conversation, I’m pregnant by the way, Mary, these potatoes are delicious. What kind of spices did you use?”

 

Greg chokes on his beer. John looks at her with wide eyes, fork clattering to the plate, Mrs. Hudson gasps and Mary blinks. “A mixture of thyme, oregano and Cajun. Congratulations.” She pauses, “would you like some salad?”

 

(Molly always knew she liked Mary.)

* * *

John stumbles over his words. “It’s just…I didn’t even…you…oh, _bloody hell_ , what am I trying to say?”

 

“What he’s _trying_ to say,” Greg interjects, “is _who the hell have you been shagging? Why haven’t we met him? Is he going to be there for you?_ And most importantly, _do we need to talk to him_?” By _talk_ , Molly knows that he subtly means _kill_ and quietly dispose of his body.

 

“Yes.” John sighs; he blows air out of his mouth. “Exactly. Though… _I_ would have put it a bit more eloquently than that.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t of. Stop trying to toot your own horn.” Greg retorts.

 

Molly’s chest hurts. She wishes Sherlock could be here to see this. She wishes that he could be here period.

 

So, she smiles and lies through her teeth, just like she’s been doing for the past two years. Part of her hates Sherlock for making her do this and another part of her doesn’t hate Sherlock at all.

 

“Jesus.” John breathes in deep and then looks at Molly, his clear eyes wide and a bright smile on his face. “You’re going to be a mother and I’ll…I’ll be the best damn uncle ever.”

 

Greg rolls his eyes, “we’ll be the best uncles, ever. Honestly. _I’ve_ known her longer.”

 

_Oh,_ Molly thinks with a heavy heart, _you have no idea._

* * *

Molly is starting to show. She’s almost thankful for the loose trousers and jumpers that she wears to work because they’re about the most comfortable things she owns at this point in time.

 

She has people hovering over like protective guardians. Sally is always watching her with hawk-like eyes, ready for the moment when Molly decides to completely lose it (she hasn’t gotten to that point in time yet, but Molly has no doubt her break in sanity is rapidly approaching.)

 

Mrs. Hudson bakes and cooks for her. Whenever Molly drops by Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson hands her a Tupperware full of things that makes Molly’s mouth water. The older woman stares at her with kind eyes and bright smile and lays her head on her shoulder. “Oh, my dear. Oh, my brave girl. You should eat up. You’re eating for two!” (Yeah and doesn’t Molly know it.)

 

Greg visits more often now. He brings with him funny stories about the people he works with and regales her with tales of when he was younger.

 

John starts coming by the morgue more now. He ceased coming altogether after Sherlock’s jump. He bites his lip one day as he watches her flit around the morgue. She doesn’t do much in the way of autopsies anymore but at least she’s catching up with all the paperwork she’s neglected.

 

They don’t talk about _him_. _Sherlock_. Molly does her best to not bring it up and John is more than happy to finally move on from watching his best friend jump off a roof and die (even though he didn’t. At least not really.)

 

And then, one day, _this_ day, John says the words that make Molly’s heart stop. “Do you ever think about what Sherlock would say about this?” He blurts out. “I mean, about you. Being pregnant and all.” He runs a hand across his weary face and smiles apologetically at her. “Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

 

She shakes her head. Does she think about what he would say about this? _All the time_. Sometimes, she lies awake at night terrified about his reaction. “You know, I…I don’t think I know what Sherlock would say.” She pauses and lets out a small sigh, pushing away hair from her face. “Probably mention something about my weight.”

 

John lets out a choked laugh. “God. You’re right. He’d be a right bastard.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “But…he’d be here, you know? He cared for you.”

 

_He told me I counted once_ , Molly wants to tell John, _right before I helped him fake his suicide._

 

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she just smiles tightly and ignores the pain in her heart.

* * *

Four and a half months into her pregnancy, Molly is awakened by a sudden jolt in her stomach. Her eyes snap open and she lets out a choked gasp, hands instinctively going to her stomach. She takes deep breaths and counts to ten.

 

And then she feels it. The sensation of being kicked by a tiny foot that belongs to the tiny being in her body.

 

She lets out a small giggle (the sound echoes in the achingly empty flat) and the baby kicks again.

 

Molly laughs with glee until she starts to cry.

 

_He should be here._ But instead, he’s _somewhere_ in the world with no knowledge of the life (lives) he left behind.

* * *

“You know,” Molly muses, “I trust Mary a lot. She’s one of the best obstetricians in London.”

 

“That’s all well and good for Doctor Morstan but I’ve got the best obstetrician in the _world_ for you.” Mycroft replies, taking a sip of his tea and nibble of his cake.

 

“I don’t want the _best in the world_.” Molly tells him truthfully. “I want Mary.”

 

Mycroft looks at her with an expression, one that she’s become familiar with. It’s the exasperated one, the one that says _you can believe you’ve won the battle but you’ll never win the war_ (Molly lets Mycroft believe whatever he wants, because she knows this is a battle and war she’ll win, every single time.)

 

“How is he?” Molly changes the subject, her heart heavy.

 

“He’s fine. He’s just fine.”

 

Everything is always just _fine_.

 

Molly wants to scream but she doesn’t. Instead, she places her hand on her stomach and smiles.

* * *

Six months into her pregnancy, she’s in a café with Mary and Sally when she sees a woman with a young child. The little girl is pouting and the mother has apparently had enough because she snaps at the little girl.

 

And Molly’s heart breaks and wrenches and she feels a sinking sensation in her stomach when she sees the little girl’s bottom lip tremble. Her small knuckles brush against her eyes and she meets Molly’s gaze with her own. Molly sucks in a deep breath and bolts from her seat and out of the café.

 

_Oh God_. What was she _thinking_?

 

She can’t be a mother. She doesn’t know _how_ to be a mother. What if she does something wrong? What if her child grows up to hate her and does things to _spite_ her? (Did _she_ ever do anything to spite her mother?) What if she irrevocably fucks things up for her child? What if Molly is like the mother inside the café, snapping at her own kid years down the road?

 

Molly has never taken to failure well but this…this is one failure that Molly can’t stomach the thought of.

 

She takes wild deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself down.

 

She can’t do this.

 

She never wanted this (at least not really.) While all her other friends always talked about getting married and having kids, Molly just wanted to cut up dead bodies. She _never_ wanted to have to deal with being responsible for the wellbeing and life of someone else. Mainly, because she’s so damned terrified that somehow, somewhere along the way, she’ll do something wrong and the universe will laugh at her, taunt her with _I told you so_.

 

And what about when Sherlock does find out? What about then? What if he looks at her and tells her that he wants _nothing_ to do with her or the baby? Even worse, what if he stays and then resents her? What if someone finds out that he has a kid and something happens? He has enemies, hell, Molly _dated_ one of his enemies (and look how great that turned out. Molly blames Jim Moriarty for a lot of things.)

 

“Molly?” Sally calls out worriedly.

 

Mary has a hand on her shoulder and Sally is staring at Molly with dark brown eyes.

 

Molly promptly bursts into tears. “I can’t do this. I _can’t_. _Oh God_. I’m going to be a _terrible_ mother and my daughter is going to grow up hating me and resenting me and then she’s going to get multiple tattoos that will probably result in an infection because God only knows that some tattoo parlors here are _not_ the most sanitary and that infection will make her go on antibiotics and _God_ , knowing history, she’ll become addicted to drugs and she’ll scream she hates me and _I’m going to be an awful mum_.”

 

There are people looking at her as they walk past her and Molly can only imagine what she looks like. She’s six months pregnant and having a complete and utter breakdown. In public. And oh God, did she just say _given history, her child will have an addiction_? Right. Because that’s not the biggest hint _ever_.

 

“What are you staring at?” Sally snaps at the pedestrians that shake their heads at them.

 

Mary rubs Molly’s back and soothes her. “You will _not_ be a terrible mum. Want to know why? Because you, Molly Hooper, are an amazing woman. Seriously and the fact that you’re worried this much, now, only means that you’ll be an even more amazing and attentive mum when the baby finally does come. And we’ll be here every step of the way because that’s _what family does_.”

 

Molly bites her lip so hard, she bleeds.

 

“Did you just call you baby _she_?” Sally asks. “Molly, are you having a _girl_?”

 

She doesn’t know, Molly opted to not know but there is something in her gut that screams, she’s having a baby girl. Still, Molly lets out a small laugh because that _would_ be the one thing Sally picks out of her entire tirade.

* * *

“I see you had an eventful day.” Mycroft says softly.

 

He _sees_. As in he watches her. It should be freaky and if Molly weren’t so concerned about being kidnapped and used as leverage or some other equally nefarious thing, she would be reading Mycroft Holmes the riot act about privacy. (Somehow, she thinks that would go over his head.) But she doesn’t. Instead, she’s grateful because she knows he’s watching her every move and ready to act should anything happen (Molly’s most certainly hoping towards the _nothing happening, ever_ , scenario.) “I’m terrified.” She admits.

 

“It’s to be expected.”

 

(God. That’s such a _Holmes_ thing to say.)

* * *

Apparently, Sherlock finds out by accident. (Molly blames Mycroft even though it was one of Mycroft’s men who lets it slip, _‘oh hey, you know that Pathologist, yeah, you’re Pathologist? Got herself knocked up.’_ The man has his mouth wired shut, because Sherlock breaks his jaw but he’s able to mumble out, his mouth full of blood and salvia _‘he knows’_ into the phone’s receiver, before he promptly passes out from the pain. Somewhere, in London, Mycroft is shaking his head.)

 

She’s in her seventh month and she’s big (Mary tells her she’s all stomach and that most pregnant women would kill to be like her, Molly feels oddly pleased) when she comes home to a darkened flat. She’s pressed against the door as soon as she locks it and Molly opens her mouth to scream when impatient hands pull her shirt up and large warm hands press against her bulging stomach.

 

(She _knows_ those hands. She’s _ached_ for those hands.)

 

“Sherlock?” She breathes, her voice breaking the stillness of her flat.

 

He says nothing, just leans against her slightly, hands pressed against her stomach.

 

(Molly wonders idly if he’s trying to search for her baby’s- _their_ baby’s-pulse.)

* * *

They don’t speak. Molly tries to say something, _anything_ , but every time she opens her mouth, she looks at his face and she falls silent.

 

She feels guilty and she doesn’t know why. It’s not like she _purposely_ kept this from him (well, okay, yes, maybe she did) but she had her reasons. She wanted him distraction free. She wanted him to concentrate on clearing his name and finding all the evidence he needs to _come back home_. She would have told him eventually (she doesn’t know when, but eventually.)

 

“Are…” she takes a deep breath. “Are you back?”

 

He’s staring at her bulging stomach and his eyes snap up to meet hers when her voice and question reaches his ears. “No.” He tells her, his voice deep and so tired. “Almost. But not yet.”

 

(Her heart breaks with those three last words.)

 

She knows now, why she didn’t tell him. Yes, it was in part to protect him, because it’s what she’s _done_ for as long as she’s known him but it’s also to protect herself and her ( _their_ ) baby.

 

Because Molly Hooper can’t handle watching him walk out her door and never walking back in.

* * *

She somehow isn’t surprised that he follows her into bed.

 

She is surprised by how fast she falls asleep.

 

She most certainly is surprised when she wakes up four hours later to a dark room and to Sherlock Holmes talking to her stomach. His large hands span across her belly, caressing her taunt skin and she feels the baby moving, kick after kick. Sherlock continues to talk, his voice low, lips hovering over her stomach.

 

She doesn’t know what he’s saying; he’s speaking rapidly, something about experiments and physics and at one point, Molly is certain he recites the periodic table. And then he says the words that make Molly’s breath catch in her throat. “When I come back, I’ll teach you everything.”

 

(Eight words, when on their own, mean nothing, but _together_ , _put_ together by _Sherlock_ and _said_ by _Sherlock_ , mean _everything_.)

 

She runs her fingers through his inky black curls and he sighs, his breath fluttering against her skin.

 

The baby kicks in response.

* * *

He’s gone the next morning.

 

Molly has to call in sick to work because the baby will _not_ stop kicking.

 

(She wants to hear her father’s voice. Molly doesn’t blame her. She does too.)

* * *

She doesn’t hear from Sherlock after that night but Mycroft lets her know more details about what he’s doing and where he is. He lets her know that Sherlock is close, _so_ close to having this all finished.

 

All Molly can do is hope that he’s able to make it for the birth.

* * *

Surprisingly, her water breaks when she’s with Greg.

 

He’s shopping for a present for his niece and Molly has been cooped up in her flat since her maternity leave started and she jumps at the opportunity for some fresh air.

 

They’re in the middle of the department store, Greg looking comically lost and confused at all things female around him, when the pain hits her suddenly and rapidly and she feels water trickle down her leg. She sucks in a gasp, hands clutching her midsection.

 

Greg twirls around, a bright pink shirt with a unicorn on it, in his hands. “Molls?”

 

“My water broke.” She bites out. She frowns at the shirt in his hand. “I thought you said your niece is _sixteen_.”

 

“She is.” He looks at the pink shirt. “No?” He shakes his head. “ _Bloody hell_ , I don’t care. Her birthday isn’t until next week. You’re kid’s birthday is _today_. Or tomorrow. Or even the day after, I once heard-”

 

“Greg.” Molly snaps. “Can you finish the story in the car? Or in the back of an ambulance? Or when I’m completely drugged out of my mind? Because I’m going into labor and it bloody well _hurts_.”

 

“Right.” He straightens his back and wraps an arm around her. “Move it.” He yells, as the crowd parts for them. “She’s giving birth.” He fiddles with his phone and dials a number. “Sally?...Molly’s in labor.” Molly can hear Sally shrieking over the phone. “Can you make sure Mary is waiting at the doors for her? Call John too, oh! Don’t forget to pick up Mrs. Hudson…yes…no…what?…just meet us there Sally!” He hangs up and shakes his head. “So…a baby, yeah?”

 

She nods and lets out a whimper as the pain hits her again.

 

“You know, you never did tell us the bloke’s name.”

 

She shakes her head. It’s all she can do to _not_ call out the _bloke’s_ name.

 

(She’s glad she doesn’t, because she’s almost certain that Greg would accidentally drive the car into the pole from shock…especially seeing as how the _bloke_ in question has been _dead_ for almost three years.)

* * *

Her contractions are getting closer together and she’s huffing and puffing just like she’s been told to do. She’s gripping the bed sheets tightly, her knuckles white. Mary is soothing her and talking to her gently from her spot in the room.

 

As a doctor, Molly knows childbirth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s not how they portray it in films that she’s watched. It’s long, tiring, dirty and it really _really_ fucking hurts. Sweat has matted her hair and her body and she grits her teeth but still manages to scream when the contractions hit closer together.

 

She wants to sob as she looks over to her side and sees the spot next to her unoccupied.

 

“Molly.” Mary calls out. “It’s time. We’re going to do this. You’re going to be a mum very soon.”

 

There is a sudden commotion from outside in the hall. Molly’s heart leaps and Mary whips around. She can hear shouting (John’s furious and for good reason), sobbing (Mrs. Hudson), cursing (Sally has never liked him) and general confusion mixed in with hurt (Greg always thought of Sherlock like a brother, or at the very least like a second cousin once removed who one only has to see on special occasions.)

 

“Yes. Yes.” Sherlock snaps, his voice echoing in the hall, “I’m not dead. It was all an elaborate scheme to keep most of you alive. I’m a horrid person. John, you want to punch me, don’t deny it, however, it will have to wait until _after_ Molly has my child.”

 

Then in all his glory, he pushes open the door and walks in.

 

“Did he just say M _olly_ is having _his_ child?” Greg asks.

 

“Molly!” Sally calls out, “you’ve some explaining to do!”

 

Mary looks up at Sherlock and glances at his wardrobe. “Sherlock Holmes, I presume?” She looks at Molly. “He’s the father?” At Molly’s nod, Mary looks over at one of the nurses, frozen in shock upon seeing Sherlock. “Don’t just stand there,” she snaps, “get the man some scrubs.” She smiles warily at Sherlock. “Welcome back, then.” She takes a deep breath and smiles encouragingly at Molly. “Let’s meet the little one, shall we?”

 

(Molly always knew she liked Mary.)

* * *

They have a little girl.

 

Molly sobs as she holds her.

 

Sherlock hovers near but never touches her, never touches them. His eyes are wild, taking every moment in and cataloguing it in his mind palace. (She wonders if she and Beth (short for Bethany, her mother’s name) have a room of their own, in his mind.) But he never touches them. Molly doesn’t take it too much to heart.

 

(At least, this is what she tries to tell herself.)

* * *

John does indeed punch Sherlock in the face. Then he holds Beth gently and tells her that even thought her father is the biggest _arse_ in the world, she’s so incredibly lucky.

 

(Molly feels the same.)

* * *

It’s late at night; Molly’s body still hurts and her eyes search for Beth. She feels her heart speed up and feels bile rise in her throat when she sees Beth isn’t in her crib but then she sees a tall figure by the window, his arms holding a small bundle of pink and he’s speaking softly, deeply to her.

 

“What are you saying?” Molly asks groggily. She sits up and holds out her arms. (Molly has never wanted to be a mother but now that she is one, she can’t ever imagine _not_ being one. God, she’s never been this affected by another living being before in her life. Well, no, that’s a lie, she has and he’s standing next to her.)

 

He relinquishes Beth to her and Molly holds her to her chest. He’s staring at them, eyes flitting over them, studying them, analyzing them.

 

“You’re back then?” Molly asks him. At his nod, Molly takes in a deep breath. “For how long?”

 

He’s silent but Molly feels the bed dip slightly as he perches beside her, a hand grazing Beth’s hair. His clear blue eyes seek out Molly and he stares at her unblinkingly. “For as long as you’ll have me.” He answers truthfully.

 

Tears come unbidden to her eyes. “Best get comfortable, then.” She tells him, her voice choking. “You’ll be here for a while.”

 

A wide and rare smile graces his lips. “I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> AdaYuki…this is for you. I hope you liked it. It kind of went into a majorly different way than I wanted it to but still…I hope that this is a little bit what you had in mind when you asked for a pregnant Molly fic. Although, Sherlock didn’t exactly cooperate with me, did he? So, yes. I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this and I apologize a thousand times over if this isn’t what you wanted or what you expected. 
> 
> Also: HOLY SHIT I LOVE YOU GUYS. SERIOUSLY. 
> 
> I don’t think I’ve ever come across a group of people who are so utterly and completely supportive of one another, like the Sherlollians. Really. Reading your guys’ reviews and seeing your guys’ support means the world to me and without you guys, I’d wouldn’t write what I write and more importantly, enjoy what I write. So this…everything I have written and everything I will ever write is for all of you. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed my foray into pregnant!Molly. I kind of had fun writing it.


End file.
